


Whiskey

by EllaStorm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, So much angst, remembering the good old times, sam drinking alone, set after the s7 finale, which means: angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Dean’s inexplicable disappearance after the victory over Dick Roman Sam drinks the best part of a bottle of whiskey and recaps the last years he had with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been created as a cooperation of four slightly alcoholised amateur authors. Namely: Three of my absolutely brilliant, crazy friends (one of them goes by the name of SandraMorningstar on here; you should check out her profile - she's seriously talented!) and me, at about two o'clock in the morning. Which means: This is not solely my work. Actually, only one quarter of it is my work. Yeah. Now you know why it's better than my usual stuff...

The hair really made his life so much more difficult, Sam randomly conceded to himself. It was too long, obscured his view more often than not and took ages to dry. His brother’s mocking words still rang in his ears: Sammy, if your hair goes on like that, I’ll officially rename you Rapunzel.

He smiled, bitterly.

It was beyond his capabilities, still, to accept the cold, irrefutable reality of what had happened in the bleak business headquarter of Richard-Roman-Enterprises a few days ago. However - acceptance had never been a strong point in the Winchester family. Sam took a sip of his whiskey. Repressing, denying, ignoring: He and Dean were masters in those departments. And no surprise there – Dad had been a magnificent teacher.

But accepting? Coming to terms? Not so much.

“Dean”, Sam mouthed at the empty motel room. The name faded away, unheard, unrecognized.

A crazy spark of hope blazed up in him, then, just for a second, kindled by his inebriated mind. Dean had returned once. Maybe… Sam gave a mirthless laugh and knocked the contents of his glass back in one go. Stupid.

There was no angel that would bring Dean back. Not this time.

Sam poured himself another glass and drank it down at once, concentrated on the sting of the alcohol in his throat that overcast the haunting presence of complete and utter abandonment for a few moments – until the second, unused bed next to him came back into focus and reminded him, reminded him of…

He emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass to distract himself, but the memories returned nonetheless, flew past him, just like all that time ago when they had still been powerful enough to call a halt to the Devil’s hand. Sam saw everything in front of him, silent and colourful: The Impala, the open road and Dean, Dean, always Dean. How it was, and how it should have been, forever.

The colour of the whiskey bugged him, suddenly, irrationally. Brown. Not green. Sam swirled the glass around in his hand, until the sticky amber licked at his fingers, and knocked it back. He had stopped counting how many glasses he’d had – and he honestly couldn’t care less.

The taste that lingered in his mouth brought him back to warm nights on the hood of the Impala, and cold ones tangled up together on the backseat, to the phantoms of soft and passionate kisses that had tasted exactly like this.

Whiskey had always been Dean’s drink of choice, and Sam had known the taste only from his lips, for the longest time.

That had been before. Before the kisses had stopped. Dean hadn’t been the same ever since he’d returned form Hell. Things had changed – and somewhere along the way that kind of closeness had gotten away from them. With the exception of the one, desperate night before the fistfight of Armageddon, Dean hadn’t touched him anymore. And now Sam wished, yearned, for just one more time.

He’d never admitted it to himself, but he had missed Dean’s warmth during those last, hollow years.

It was strange how the whole process of admitting only started once things were done and dusted, and all hope gone up in a black, gooey explosion.

Sam wondered how much of Dean he’d already lost beforehand, how much of that estrangement was his fault – and came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter.

Dean was gone.

And he had to live with it.


End file.
